Death of a Santa
by Estepheia
Summary: It's Christmas Eve. Grissom and Greg get called to an unusual victim...
1. Teaser

TITLE: Death of a Santa  
CHARACTERS: Grissom & Greg, plus a few minor characters  
WARNINGS: I will talk about autopsies and about certain distasteful crimes, but the story will be a lot less graphic than the show; also, there may be a slashy undercurrent, but nothing explicit

----

Usually, the flashing lights of the squad cars and ambulances and the bustle of cops and medics attracted swarms of curious onlookers. Tonight the crowd was significantly smaller, although not entirely absent. A handful of rubbernecks stood outside the yellow tape, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands to keep the cold at bay, the need to satisfy their curiosity outweighing their holiday spirits.

"Look at them. Can you believe it?" Greg muttered as he lugged his heavy kit out of the trunk. "Don't they have anything better to do? Like eating turkey or singing carols?"

"Apparently not," Grissom said mildly. He'd long ceased to be amazed at people's inherent lack of common sense.

The two forensic scientists ducked under the yellow tape and headed for the police officer in charge.

"Ernesto Navarro. Works for maintenance. He's the one who called it in," Captain Brass greeted them, indicating a thin man in a grimy work overall. The man was sweating, in spite of the cold. He wasn't handcuffed, but two uniformed cops were hovering nearby, close enough to apprehend him, if necessary.

Gil Grissom took in the way Navarro shifted from one foot to the other, and pursed his lips. The man carried himself like he'd spent the better part of his forty-plus years in jail. Not the kind of man who'd call the cops, no matter what.

"Several priors: mostly B & E, two arrests for assault, but no convictions, " Brass reeled off, consulting his notebook. "Out on parole."

"Look, I only found the guy," the man stammered, wiping his palms on his pant leg. "Would I have called you if I had anything to do with this?"

"Did you touch anything?" Grissom asked. "Or move the body?"

"And get my prints on him? No way!" Navarro looked insulted. "Look, can I go? It's Christmas. I'd like to be with my family."

"Then what were you doing outside?" Greg asked.

The man scratched his ear and shrugged. "Catching some air?" he suggested.

Brass rolled his eyes. "Get him some coffee, but keep him here," he told the two cops, before taking the lead. They crossed a well-kept courtyard with well-kept flowerpots. Not a place for the very rich, but definitely for the well-to-do. "Many of the tenants are away over the holidays, visiting their folks," Brass continued. "My guess is, Navarro was breaking into some of these apartments. Maybe the vic surprised him."

"No security cameras," Grissom observed.

"After this, they'll probably get them," Greg predicted.

The three men stopped next to David Philips, the assistant coroner.

Grissom carefully set down his case and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his coat pockets. "Hello David. What have we got?"

The coroner got up and stepped back, giving Grissom a full view of the body: a fat, white-haired man in his sixties, with a long white beard. He lay sprawled on the concrete. The man wore a crimson red suit with white lining, a black belt, and black polished boots. A Santa hat lay less than two yards away.

"Ho, ho, ho," Greg said irreverently.

Grissom shot him a glance of mild reproach, before focusing on the body. "COD?"

"According to preliminary findings: Exsanguination," Philips told him, pointing at the large, glistening pool of blood that had formed around the victim's head. "Caused by blunt force trauma to the skull, consistent with a fall from great height. Time of death: less than two hours ago."

"Any ID?"

"Nothing in his outer pockets," Brass said. "Maybe under the costume."

Grissom dropped into a crouch to study the victim's face. It was a jolly, rotund face, with blue eyes that were staring unblinkingly at the star-studded sky. Grissom followed the dead man's gaze to scan the rooftops

"It could have been an accident," Greg said.

"Or he could have been pushed," Brass said.

"Well, it looks like Blitzer and the others aren't here to tell us what happened," Grissom said softly. "So let's get him to the lab. Greg? You take the roof."

He rose to his feet to make room for the body bag crew.

"He sure looks the part, doesn't he?" Brass said, pocketing his notebook. "Makes you wonder. Who'd want to kill a fake Santa?"

Grissom pursed his lips. "Maybe the killer doesn't believe in Christmas."

TBC


	2. Part 1

**Part 1**

"I never thought old St. Nick would end up on my table," Doctor Robbins mused, as he brought the scalpel down to make the first Y-incision. On the table right next to him, a small portable radio was playing "Let it Snow."

"I believe it's safe to assume we're not dealing with the original Santa," Grissom said, picking up a stack of X-rays and peering at the images.

"Occam's Razor," the doctor stated. "Think horses, not zebras."

"Exactly."

The two coroners shared a fleeting smile, but the presence of death had a sobering effect, even after years of cutting up bodies. Without any further ado, Robbins started to report his findings:

"The X-Ray shows multiple fractures to the back of the skull, ribcage, and spine, all of which is consistent with a fall from a height of approximately 30 feet. He landed on his back. I'm thinking he lost consciousness right away and bled out."

"There was a lot of blood at the scene," Grissom confirmed.

"I can't tell you for certain whether he fell or whether he was pushed, but look at this:" Robbins put the scalpel down to lift the deceased's right arm, exposing a bluish discoloration not far from the wrist. He repeated the procedure with the other arm, showing Grissom a matching bruise. "I am certain these contusions weren't caused by a fall."

"Defensive wounds?"

"In my professional opinion? Yes. He was trying to shield his face. Instinct."

Grissom pursed his lips. "Then whatever hit him, will have left traces on his clothes. I'll get Greg to take a closer look. Anything else?"

"That's all I can tell you right now."

Grissom nodded. "Thanks, doc."

"Any time." The coroner lowered his visor and picked up the electric saw. The radio started to play "Jingle Bells."

Grissom picked up his file and headed out. Behind him, the saw's high-pitched whine drowned out the radio.

"Greg?" Grissom stuck his head through the door.

The dead Santa's red suit had been spread over the large, brightly lit table. Greg was hunched over the pant leg, scraping something into a tiny paper envelope. At Grissom's call he straightened, and sealed the envelope.

"I put the photos from the roof on your desk," Greg said. "The vic was definitely on the roof. I found eight cigarette butts, all one brand; I sent them off to DNA. Other than that, no footprints, no blood, no signs of a struggle. Clean as a whistle."

"Did you check the sleeve? According to the post mortem, the vic suffered defensive wounds to the forearms."

"Yeah, I found some greasy residue. Maybe fat or wax. Sent it to Trace, along with a short brown hair that I found on the vic's shoulder." Greg grinned, pleased with himself.

Grissom stifled a fond smile. "Good work."

"It gets better. Check this out." Greg picked up a white plastic box and shoved it in Grissom's direction. "Look what we found in Santa's pocket."

Grissom peered at the contents and raised an eyebrow. "Lock picks?"

"I had Hodges check scrapings from the lock of the door that leads to the roof. Bingo. Our vic definitely used the lock picks to gain access to the roof." Greg shot his supervisor a mischievous grin. "And here I always thought Santa traveled by chimney."

"Life is full of disappointments," Grissom said philosophically. "Maybe our Santa has priors. Did you check his prints, yet?"

"Philips printed him, but I haven't had time to run them through AFUS. I can do it now, if you want. I'm done here."

Grissom nodded. Thanks to Christmas, he had to work with a skeleton crew. Warrick had taken an entire week off to take his wife skiing. Catherine had taken Lindsey on a trip to Europe. Nick had asked for a few days off to visit the parents of his new girl friend. Grissom wouldn't have granted his request, if Greg hadn't volunteered to work both Christmas shifts. Most of the lab personnel were at home, celebrating Christmas with their families. In their absence, Greg's lab skills were indispensable.

But why Greg had chosen to work instead of spending Christmas with his folks, especially after he had almost been killed in the line of duty, remained a mystery to Grissom. He knew that Greg got on well with his family. In previous years, Greg had always requested leave – and Grissom had always granted it.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

Grissom hesitated. It was never easy to bring up the assault. It had left them all stunned and enraged and aware of their own vulnerability. They all knew how to shoot and had attended self-defense courses, but they were scientists, not cops. "Let me know if you find our vic in the database," Grissom finally said.

"Will do." Greg folded the Santa suit and carefully placed it in its evidence box, then labeled up his smaller evidence bags.

Grissom allowed himself a few seconds to watch Greg's efficient movements and his painstaking care, nodded, and retreated to his lab, to read the reports that were piling up on his desk.

TBC


End file.
